


Run Motherfucker (Get Inside)

by HurricanesatDawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Poison, Relatively graphic pain?, Torture, Uhhh feels warning?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesatDawn/pseuds/HurricanesatDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing he notices is the smell. It’s putrid and seems to fill his mouth and clog his senses to the point where he’s barely keeping himself from gagging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing he notices is the smell. It’s putrid and seems to fill his mouth and clog his senses to the point where he’s barely keeping himself from gagging. _‘Ugh, disgusting.’_

His arms and legs are bound to the chair by some sort of rough rope, completely unyielding to any attempts at stretching. He coughs weakly, his head lolled off painfully to the side, and opens his eyes. He’s got a bag over his head, rather tightly tied, too. He opens his mouth to breathe out of it and inhales a corner of it.

He spits it out with a groan, and twists his neck around to see if he can get his head positioned upright again. It’s not easy, it hurts like hell and feels utterly unnatural.  The chair to which he seems to be tied is metal and awkwardly shaped enough that it makes it difficult to move his head, but he finally manages. Letting out a soft laugh of victory, he kicks one of his feet up in the air to test around it.

He hears a soft clatter, followed quickly by the banging sound of a metal door hitting a wall. He drops his leg and goes limp.

There’s nothing but silence for several excruciating minutes until the bag is finally jerked off his head. He squints at the figure leering over him and coughs. “Hi there, fatso. You must be prison guard of the week. Congratulations!”

This gets him a sharp slap to the face, delivered powerfully enough that his neck twists around and he winces in pain. _‘Okay, then, something definitely wrong with the neck. Whiplash?’_

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insulted your weight, princess. Obviously you’re sensitive about it. Trying a new diet, then?” The hand makes more of an echoing noise than causes pain this time, which is curious.

“I’ll take that as a resounding no.” He twists his head back around, letting it roll backwards to stare at the man. “Anything else I can do for you, darling? Contrary to popular opinion, I am not, in fact, a punching bag.”

He rolls his eyes after the third hit and lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Am I supposed to be quiet, then?”

The man grunts and shifts on his feet, seemingly turning the question over in his clearly very dense mind. “Boss says to keep Mr. Moriarty entertained until he’s ready for him. Boss says to not bore Mr. Moriarty because that comes later.”

“Oh. _Oh._ I see how it is. So your boss thinks that I need a broken jaw? You’re an idiot. I can’t exactly talk if you damage my ability to move my mouth, you know.” He snarls out, his tone almost good natured. _Almost._

The fool’s eyes widen and he mulls it over, shifting self-consciously now. His mouth opens and he starts to say something, but the first syllable is interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

“You can leave now, McCartney. I have no further need of you.”

James tries to crane his neck around to see, but he can’t reach around that far so he pouts instead, and the stinging stops him from trying harder.

McCartney comes close to tripping in his eagerness to leave, mumbling almost incoherently, some of which resembles ‘thank you’ and ‘have a good evening, boss’. 

“Are you going to show your face, or is it a surprise? Oooh, I know! This is like a blind date, isn’t it? Did someone set us up and now you’re here to take me to dinner?” James giggles, relaxing into his seat. “But please, oh mysterious date of mine, I want to see your face. Nay! I am dying to see your face. I must know if you’re as fair as all the stories would suggest.”

“Jim. May I call you Jim? Excellent.” He doesn’t pause to give James enough time to answer, or even to breathe. HIs voice is dry and sounds almost entirely devoid of any sort of inflection. “I have a problem, Jim. And I hear you’re the one to go to with problems.”

“Oh, well, then, of course! Tell me all your problems and I’ll fix them for you!” James laughs pleasantly. “Don’t keep me waiting. I just love to hear about other people’s problems.”

“Don’t test my patience, Jim.” Hands close around his shoulders in a hard, unrelenting grip. The voice lowers to a whisper. “I don’t like it when people test my patience. They tend to end up dead. You don’t want to end up dead, do you, Jim?”

“What a sweet talker you are. No, really, you’re positively sending _shivers_ down my spine.” James forces out a full body shudder, and leans his head onto one of the hands. “The way you speak just does things to me.”

The hands are jerked away so quickly that the chair shakes and threatens to topple over. James frowns, planting his feet firmly on the ground to try and steady himself. He’d really rather not fall over any time soon.

The faint sound of the man taking a deep, calming breath plays like music to James’ ears. He smirks and turns his head towards the sound. “You all right over there, dearie? You sound like you need some serious yoga in your life. You know, you should really try it. It’s quite soothing, calms the mind, not to mention the added effect of making you _incredibly_ flexible.”

The man snarls at him, raising a hand to whack the back of his head. _‘Fuck, that actually hurts. Headwound?’_ James glances down at his knees in an attempt to see if they dance at all in his vision. Seeing nothing special, aside from the frankly appalling state of his trousers, he shrugs it off carelessly and looks back up.

“You think you’re so powerful. The great and terrifying James Moriarty.” The voice is back, hissing and spitting in his ear. ‘What, does he think he’s a snake all of a sudden?’ 

“You’re nothing. You’re less than nothing. You hide behind your suits, and your force of mindless killers. You pay off or kill anyone that tries to question your greed, anyone that looks like they might be a threat some day. But now?” Hands circle around James’ neck, choking it with moderate force. More an attempt to prove a point than anything else. “Now you’re helpless. There’s no one to save you now, no one to protect you. It's _your turn_ to be broken.”

“There are a few things wrong with what you just said,” James coughs out, smirking even harder. “One...you’re an idiot. Two...you really think that you’re the one that gets to finish me at the end of the day? Three...you’re an idiot. And last, but definitely not least, you should really be aware what things like being asphyxiated does to a man like me.”

His neck is squeezed tight enough to completely cut off his air for the barest of a moment before he’s shoved chair and all away. He crashes down onto the floor and grunts. “That’s more like it. You’re learning. Always keep your victim in a state of being powerless.” He hacks and then chuckles, the sound coming out slightly raspy.

“Fine. Make your jokes, _underestimate me_.” A boot kicks at the back of the chair, pushing it forward until he’s practically pressed up against the wall. “But make no mistake...I will break you.”

“I’m counting on it, sweetheart.” James grins, “I would hate for you to give up after just a few words with me. Hit me with your best shot.”

“I’ll be back,” He growls, “Make yourself at home while you wait.” James hears sound of something being kicked against the wall and then quickly receding footsteps.

_**> <><><** _

It’s almost precisely three hours later when the man returns, creeping into the room in an attempt to be silent. James knows these things because of several reasons.

The first being that he’d mastered the art of having an internal clock that never missed a tick years before. The second can be blamed on his recognizing the unique sound that the man’s shoes had made on the floor the first time he’d come by for a little visit.

He doesn’t even bothering playing dead, because there’s no logical reason to do so. _‘Not to mention that playing dead is extremely boring unless you’re with the right people and in the right setting.’_

“Darling!” James calls out cheerfully, “You came back to visit little old me again! I’m flattered, truly. I’d feared that you might find someone new and replace me in your heart.”

His taunts are ignored and he’s pulled up, his chair moved back towards its original sitting position by unseen hands. _‘Curious.’_

“Now, Jim.” The man’s voice starts behind his head, moving around until he’s actually standing in front of James. Which is, admittedly, a welcome relief. James hates having to talk to people when he doesn’t know what their face looks like. He’s got bleach blond hair, the starchy face of a man who has had one too many botox injections, brown eyes, and a nondescript nose. _‘Boring. And ordinary.’_

“Jim. Friendly little Jim with the jibes and the playful attitude that masks his disgustingness.” His face contorts into a snarl, which is more fascinating to see than it is frightening in any way. “I’ve brought a few friends to come see you. I hope you don’t mind.”

At this, the other men that had entered the room behind the man make themselves visible as they move around, pulling gloves onto their hands. One of them has a case, which he places on top of a table that seems to materialize suddenly. The carrier of the table disappears before he can be examined at all.

“Ooh, are they scientists? I love scientists. They’re always a great big ball of laughs when you tickle them just right.” James laughs at his own joke, still eyeing the case absently.

“Not scientists, no. But they do work for some that work for me.” The man gives him a smile that must be an attempt at looking sly, but offshoots the mark so much that he just looks like he’s trying to hide a beer gut.

“Oh, dear me, I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible guest. You simply _must_ forgive me for not asking sooner. But what, _kind sir_ , is your name? I’m not sure if I can continue on in sound mind without having something to tack onto your... _youthful_ face.” James returns the smile with one of his own, a considerably more deadly one full to the brink with sharp, white teeth.

“Had you? I thought that you might...” He mutters under his breath before catching himself and redirecting his slightly faltering glare at James. “You don’t need to know who I am. All you need to know is that I am your end.”

“Oh!” James flutters his eyelashes and presses his lips back together into a pout. “That is so...romantic! It’s all like a fairytale, all of this.” He heaves his chest and fakes a handless swoon. “‘You needn’t know my name. All you need is the knowledge that I’ll complete you. The rest comes later, fair one.’” He chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows through the end of his impression.

The man snarls audibly this time and turns back on his heel to bark orders at one of the gloved men. _‘Hm. I now dub thee...Bob. Bob and the twins. Scarlett and Freddie.’_

Bob shoves Scarlett out of the way and hisses something indiscernible into his ear. Scarlett’s face, remarkably enough, actually turns scarlett. His hands shake as he hurries back over to the table and withdraws something from the case, handing it over to Bob for inspection.

“It will do.” 

It’s a syringe, half full of a clear liquid, and unmarked. _‘Ooh, goody.’_ Bob dismisses Scarlett to the corner of the room with a wave of his hand and walks over to James, standing to the side of his chair.

“Now tell me, since this will be your only opportunity to have an input in things...where would you like this? The neck, shoulder, thigh, or arse?”

“Well, I’ll be!” James adopts a careless southern belle accent, gasping in dramatic shock. “Ain’t ye gettin ‘head ‘a yerself. Why ye ain't even bought me dinner or taken me dancin, and yer already talkin ‘bout touchin my bottom?”

“Arse it is,” Bob growls, moving behind James to stick the needle through the spacing in the chair and up into his right buttock.

“Ouch!” He yelps, glaring at Freddie who freezes and helplessly stares back at him. “Sheesh, did you have to be so rude about it. You could have just asked me to stand up and bend over the table for that, you know.”

This earns him a swat across the back of the head, which hurts but offends him more than anything. “Come _on_.” He whines, “You’re being boring again. Treating me like a dog, really?”

_“Shut up.”_ Bob growls into his ear. He snaps his fingers at the twins, directing them to take the case and the table back out.

Something smooth presses against his wrists quickly, before slicing through the rope. It disappears, moves below the chair to do the same with the part tied to his legs.

James’ first reaction is to pull his arms back in front of him and rub at his wrists, a pout on his face. They’re more than a little bit raw at this point from being scratched at by the rope. In his minor distraction, Bob moves back towards the door, taking the knife with him.

“I’ll be back in,” He pauses, “Two hours. I’d tell you to get comfortable, but you’re going to start feeling the effects of the poison I just injected into your body in oh, about...five minutes. Enjoy having your body to yourself in the meantime. It’s not going to last.” The smirk in his voice is so clear that James can actually hear it this time.

He shuts the door behind him with a bang that echoes down the hallway beyond it.

_**> <><><** _

It takes exactly ten minutes for the pain to start. The twitching of his muscles came three minutes before, with a visible pulse in his left arm. His head starts jerking to the side after that, followed by shaking in his leg.

Within a minute, he can’t even grit his teeth for more than a few seconds before a spasm loosens his jaw.

He barely notices the pain at first, too distracted by his uncooperative body. It comes by way of a shooting pain in his knee that he mistakes for a spasm. Which only lasts a moment, quickly replaced by it darting up to his thigh, across his entire side, and to his neck. It increases in potency as it moves, actually succeeding in pulling a faint gasp out of him when it reaches his neck.

After that, every twitch and spasm is paired with the same, ever growing pain.

About ten minutes into it, he falls off the chair and onto his hands and knees. Which doesn’t last for long with his shaking hands, leaving him face down on the floor for several long moments.

As his body automatically adjusts to the sensations, he shoves himself up quickly and crawls over to the corner and lodges himself in it. He’d rather not be stuck lying down for this, if it’s all the same. The idea of having to eat dirt repulsives him.

Momentarily, he catches another whiff of the stench that had initially so disgusted him when he’d first woken, but he pushes it away from his mind in order to focus more heavily on his quivering hands. He can feel it now, his mind screaming at him that it’s in every bone and muscle in his body. As Bob had so kindly warned him, it really was taking over.

He gasps, lurching forward and barely catching himself as an even sharper pain seems to crawl and dance along both his thigh and one of his shoulders.

It’s actually moderately entertaining, this pain, as he waits to see where it’ll develop next. It’s not like there’s anything better to do with his time. He’s stuck in a locked, reinforced room. His personal possessions are all missing, and he’s going to be alone for another hour and a half. Why not take advantage of the only source of amusement available to him, short of scratching shapes on the walls with his fingertips?

As his muscles twitch more and more, they form a pattern in his head that inexplicably reminds him quite a lot of some form of dancing. He suspects that if it were slightly more tamed, he would actually be able to crank out some decent moves with this at his disposal.

_**> <><><** _

At the end of the prescribed two hours, James finds himself writhing quite helplessly on the floor. He’s scratched holes in the material of his trousers, his hair is sticking out ridiculously, and blood is running down his chin from having bitten almost all the way through his lip and some of his tongue.

But the pain in his mouth is nothing. He doesn’t even notice it over the now ever present _screaming_ of his body. His only real control left is over his face, and even that is quite limited. Not only by his distraction, but by the muscles that are spasming perpetually, the skin in his face hopping around like an instrument being played by a beginner.

It’s not that he’s refusing to cry, to scream, to wail and sob for an end to this. It’s more that the pain is too overwhelming for him to even consider it an option. The idea of breaking down mentally doesn’t even occur to him because it seems to be of no consequence. What would be the point?

_‘But by god, the pain.’_ Even his mind itself has quieted down to the occasional scattering of thoughts. Which, under the circumstances, is surprisingly refreshing to experience. The rest of his mind is occupied flashes of observations and random works blinking out with a flash.

The smell, now in his throat and all over his clothes, has ceased to bother him. He welcomes it now with open arms. It’s comforting, a heavy reminder that his mind is supposed to function.

He writhes and twists, his nails sometimes catching on his skin, scratching at it in pointless attempts to get rid of the itch. Destroy the source of the irritation. Sometimes his nails dig in, sometimes they tear unconsciously, as if he’s trying to rip out his own nerves to relieve himself of the pain.

It does not work.

_**> <><><** _

The man returns. Brian- Bart? _Bob._ Bob comes back with only Freddie in tow this time. They slide through the door and watch him from a distance. He can feel it, feel their stares burning holes in his skin. They watch him like he’s a monkey, a science experiment. A test. A _toy_.

He doesn’t like it.

They talk in hushed tones. Talk about him.

He doesn’t like it.

It’s like they’re taunting him. They’re trying to break him mentally now. They’ve skipped past furthering the physical and moved on to attempts at working him up the rest of the way in his head.

He doesn’t like it.

“Bob!” He spits it out, a shit-eating grin slipping on and off his face. “And you brought Freddie! I’m ever so disa-disappointed. I liked Scarlett better. Are you doing it just to spite me?” He hisses out the words, one by one, careful to enunciate each properly.

“Still able to talk?” Bob’s voice has a hint of concern in it. Which, despite being over James, is certainly not intended for his _benefit_. He whispers something to Freddie and sends him away. 

_‘Surely they’re not actually concerned?’_

Bob takes a few steps closer and reclaims the long discarded chair, moving it out of the way and sitting down on it. He takes it with the back facing James so he can rest his arms across it and watch avidly. Like he thinks it makes him look cool or something.

Opening his mouth to speak, James can’t think of anything he’d particularly like to say, so he allows the next spasm to close it again. _‘Occasionally useful, that shit is.’_

He watches right back, body shifting on the floor. The thought that he must look like something from a ghost movie skips through his mind. Like someone that needs an exorcism. He’s half tempted to start spewing Latin, but can’t seem to find it in himself to actually bother with the effort required to talk through the pain.

It _hurts_.

Bob doesn’t even have the decency to say anything for a long while. He just sits and watches, a smirk planted firmly on his face. He’s enjoying it, enjoying every moment of James’ misery. 

On a better day, in a better state of mind, hell, in a better mood, James would have admired the man for this. Admired his drive, his complete and utter sadism. It’s despicable, truly, just how much pleasure he seems to be getting from it, if the expressions passing over his face are any credit to what he’s feeling inside.

His eyes are dancing. They’re sparkling, the widest of grins moving over his face. He’s happy. He wanted this, he brought this down, this was him. _‘His revenge?’_

Bob just seems so goddamn happy over this. Like James had brought him Christmas, Easter, and his birthday all at one time.

If James were a better man, he might struggle with begrudging the man his joy.

James is not a better man. James is a man writhing helplessly on a cement floor, in some basement, with barely any light, a disgusting smell surrounding him, with complete and utter hatred filling his heart. James has never been a good man, not in any moment, and especially not in this one.

If he had it in him in his body, if he had the control, he would not hesitate to lift himself off the floor and shred the skin off his bones with his bare hands.

He can’t.

He can only hate, can only despise from a distance.

He can only stare up at him, body twitching, head shaking, and wish ill. He can dream, he can imagine, he can think of what he would...what he will do. What he will have Sebastian do for him. Have Sebastian do to the man. To Bob. That word, that name, it tastes vile, even as it stops before passing from his lips.

In those moments he hates more than he ever has in his entire life. He hates with his entire body, with his entire soul.

And then he passes out.

**_> <><><_ **

It’s quiet. He wakes again to the sound of nothing. There’s no creaking of hinges, no huffed out laughter, no words to taunt him. He can’t hear himself breathe, think, break.

Complete and utter silence.

Then it comes rushing back. It soars over his head, popping his ears.

It’s the sound of a hoarse, barely there scream.

Had he been screaming? Had he been calling out, wailing desperately for an end to this nightmare?

He had.

His lips are dry and crusted over. His body is still twisting around him, contorting into ridiculous positions. 

His limbs feel light and airy, like they’re not really his. He doesn’t feel them as they move, doesn’t notice their constant shifting. Not above the stretching of his muscles. Not above the crushing feeling of bones trying to break themselves. Not above the shouting in his head.

He’s on his back. He dimly registers one of his arms as being twisted and lodged underneath him. It tickles. It’s scratching at him as it moves, like a lifeform of its own, as begs for freedom. Freedom that he can’t give.

His legs feel like they’ve fallen off his body. Like they've been replaced. Replaced by prosthetics that dig into the bones at his pelvic bones. They press and they grind, relentlessly trying to shave down the bone.

He screams.

**_> <><><_ **

He’s lost control of his body. Unable to move anything, even in the pauses between violent spasms. He’s so far beyond twitching, past the territory of seizures. His body moves entirely on autopilot, controlled by the venom still racing through his body.

He knows, with what little conscious part of his brain is left, that every second that his heart beats this fast, he is speeding up the process of his death.

His internal clock is off, completely gone. It could have been hours, days, or even weeks that he’s writhing on the floor oblivious to the world. He can’t speak except in the occasional desperate whisper, can barely think coherently.

There’s one word going through his mind, repeating itself on a loop. As it plays, it’s the only thing that’s keeping him from giving in and letting himself die.

_‘Sebastian.’_

His mind whispers it to him over and over, his lips unable to move as the name passes through his lips with the barest puff of air.

_‘Sebastian. Please.’_

“Sebastian can’t help you now. Your precious little pet can’t get to you here.” It’s him. It’s the man. He’s back, he’s crept back in while James couldn’t concentrate.

The voice plays in his ear, his body wracked with a sudden complete shudder that leaves him terrified, tears streaming down his face.

It sounds like it’s in his ear, he can practically feel the hot breath on his cheek, the flick of hair prickling his senses.

It’s so much, it’s so powerful, and he can’t breathe. Can’t think, can’t hold on to his will to live. It works its way up and down his body, creeping into every crevice of his mind.

_‘Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian’s not coming. Sebastian’s not coming. Sebastian can’t. Sebastian can’t. Sebastian. Can’t.’_

The darkness beyond his eyelids sucks him in, pulls his limbs, dragging him away from consciousness. It takes hold of him, wraps him in its warmth and overpowering comfort. It’s not Sebastian, but it’s enough.

He lets it take him.

 

_The End._


	2. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending.

He’s lost control of his body. Unable to move anything, even in the pauses between violent spasms. He’s so far beyond twitching, past the territory of seizures. His body moves entirely on autopilot, controlled by the venom still racing through his body.

He knows, with what little conscious part of his brain is left, that every second that his heart beats this fast, he is speeding up the process of his death.

His internal clock is off, completely gone. It could have been hours, days, or even weeks that he’s writhing on the floor oblivious to the world. He can’t speak except in the occasional desperate whisper, can barely think coherently.

There’s one word going through his mind, repeating itself on a loop. As it plays, it’s the only thing that’s keeping him from giving in and letting himself die.

_‘Sebastian.’_

His mind whispers it to him over and over, his lips unable to move as the name passes through his lips with the barest puff of air.

_‘Sebastian. Please.’_

“It’s okay, Boss. I’m here.”

He can’t see it, can’t see the face that matches the words. The honorific itself sending a cold shiver down his spine at the reminder of what the fat man had called Bart...Bob.

“Boss, Boss. It’s all right. I’m here. We’re going to get you out. I promise. You’re okay now.”

But the voice. The voice registers. It takes a moment, it fights its way through his head. It echoes at him, shouts at him. _‘Sebastian! Sebastian!’_

“Se-Se- Bastian?” He whimpers, the name so quiet that the effect is probably lost.

But it isn’t. He can feel himself being lifted into the air, cradled into someone’s arms, into the curve of someone’s neck.

It’s warm. He feels warm again, warm and safe. The smell, he no longer smells the putrid air. Instead, his nostrils are filled with secondhand smoke, musky earth, and the overwhelming scent of tiger balm.

It’s Sebastian. Sebastian is carrying him out of the room, Sebastian is taking him home.

_He's going home._

_  
_

The End.


End file.
